Unlucky love
by riiiichard
Summary: When Harry meets a beautiful girl without a name in a different dimension, he can't stop thinking of her. Unfortunately, there's another factor in the way: a vampire boyfriend. Rated T for some sexual themes.
1. A Tale of Two Buttholes

A Tale of Two Buttholes

Iris exited the pool gracefully, not missing a single marble, gold-encrusted step.Water dripped from her luscious, drenched locks. Her hazel orbs searched for her rare, Pomeranian fur towel, made from the _real thing_. Her glistening, curvy body shone in the light of the full moon. She flipped her hair over her broad, muscled shoulders and danced towards her lounge chair. Iris' legs bounced against the hard concrete, her thighs rubbing together like two oyster shells at play in the sea. As she reached for her downy dryer, her rolls were more apparent than ever, each of the eighteen layers holding a dollar bill. Her seven toes curled in anticipation as she wrapped herself in warm fuzziness, for her wedding night was tomorrow.

Her husband, Howard Dwight, was almost as amazingly attractive as Iris herself. Their buttholes, being identical, meant they were meant for each other. They first felt the attraction to each other whenever they connected their ripe turd colored eyes, which told them that their plump poop producers were similar. Iris treasured Howard's bald spot and cat-loving personality. Sometimes, whenever Howard was especially sad, he would wrap his strangely hair missing arms around Iris' middle roll and squeeze _sensually _tight. He always knows when Iris is arriving home from her day job as a flapper because his ears hang to his hips, giving him extraordinary hearing. The third ear hangs from the tippy top of his chin. Sometimes, he braids the earlobes, which are the longest parts of his ear limbs, together and tosses them over his shoulder because, of course, they sometimes become a nuisance.

Iris loves her job as a flapper girl. She works in a building that is unoccupied by everyone but herself. She is paid by an anonymous benefactor that leaves her check on a table made of rubber bathing suits. The texture is slimy, the legs yellow and smelling of a peculiar poisonous fungi. Sometimes, Tuesdays mostly, Iris will ditch work to have tea with her best friend, Lafawnda.

As she sighed in complete contentment and grabbed her keys to the house, she heard the faintest of whispers escape from the luscious, green bushes next to her bulbous butt. Her thick, black unibrow raised in surprise as a hand reached out and tickled the underside of her knee. "Howard?" she hissed in manly frustration. "Where are you?"

She only detected a gruesome, gangly, and gross, yet gorgeous giggle in return. Her LED light butt cheeks, which she had surgically implanted as a child by her father, Ferdinand, swung around like a hammock and slapped the offender with a sickening squelch. She only heard a loud bang before a bullet entered her large, offensive forehead. She caught but a glimpse of her attacker before her cankles gave their last prideful shiver and collapsed to the ground in a horrifying heap. The murderer then emerged from his foliage and stepped over her already-bloated frame. Her purple blood stained the concrete and splashed onto the mysterious man's Crocs, illuminated by the fading light in Iris's prudent posterior.

Iris's wedding day was ruined, not by her humble husband-to-be Howard Dwight, but the notorious payer of Iris's day job, Dwight Howard, of The NBA.

He tossed this week's check onto her sagging chest and laughed maniacally, starting to dash away.

"That's what you get for missing work on Tuesday!" He chuckled and spun around one last time.

"See you at work tomorrow…oh wait!" He called out.

"Just kidding, tomorrow's Sunday, you silly goose bucket."

FIN


	2. Call of the Earlobes

Call of the Earlobes

Dwight Howard of the NBA was notoriously known for his extremely mischievous behavior on, and off, the beautiful, glistening courts of the NBA. Of course, Iris, who did not watch any NBA games during her fairly fruitful life, was not even remotely aware of his perpetually bamboozling behavior. When suddenly and strikingly attacked by the mysterious baller, the squelch of her body hitting the hard, unforgiving cement awoke a previously mentioned figure, but no one from the NBA. It was her fiancé, Howard, who had also never witnessed a ravishing NBA game. His gorgeous, excrement-hued eyes, akin to the shade of the basketball battlegrounds of the NBA, flew open as the alarming noise reached his three voluptuous ears.

"Honeydinklebarkry," he cried out in a fearful tone, trepidation coloring his heavily accented voice, sounding similar to that of Yao Ming of the NBA. He darted from his waterbed filled with the wings of dead birds, flying fast as the players of the NBA league; he occasionally found them resting in his earlobes. "You okay'? Nazfak brossom? I ras tinking we courd watch our first NBA game! What ras that noise?"

When his call of distress was bluntly recieved by the towering and tenacious Dwight Howard of the NBA, he narrowed his eyes in the general direction of the whimpering cry. The Crocs occupying his feet shifted slightly as he moved into a battle stance that he had never before used during a single, solitary NBA game. They reared their angry claw extensions that Dwight Howard of the NBA had purchased lovingly at the Croc accessory store, which was unoccupied by anyone but himself, similarly to how Iris had previously entered her day job's building. The claws scraped at Iris' deceased body's arm, putting more gashes, as straight as the lines of the court of the NBA into her ivory skin.

"No! Her body is mine!" Dwight Howard of the NBA hissed, fingers the shape of NBA basketballs (a disease conceived from an unfortunate trip to Aruba in the seventh grade) curling at his side as he whined in livid irritation. "Mine, _mine_!" His voice dropped at least five octaves—just like the ball of the NBA games dropping with an echo against the polished wood of the courts of the NBA!

Finally, Howard met the eyes of his enemy, brows rising just as the goals the NBA provides, fear striking his distinguished, dainty figure.

Suddenly, the atmosphere had stilled, just as the silence on the court before an important free throw during an NBA game, the only movement evident between the two being the light sway of the braided earlobes Howard possessed due to the whispering, wild wind.

While the royal purple blood, just the shade of the NBA Lakers' jersey, dripped from the deceased woman's temple, the first words were raised civilly between the two.

"What has you did?" Howard whispered in a strangled voice as his eyes met his deceased lover, just as Lamar Odom of the NBA loves Khloe Kardashian. Dwight Howard of the NBA didn't answer before he made a move to grab his counterpart's face with his basketball fingers, a snarl spread across his plump, playful lips.

"She didn't come to work on Tuesday," he hissed, pressing the lover's cheeks together as his nipples became erect and hard at the sight of his wiggling earlobes, like the wiggling of the Jell-O sold at the concession food at all NBA games. "I had to punish her."

As his nipples pressed closer to the other man's small frame, opposite of the requirements for anyone from the NBA, Dwight Howard of the NBA's tongue quickly swiped at his ears. They were just so… entrancing, swinging back and forth like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, never once included during an NBA game, ticking lonely and shallowly in the halls of an abandoned house.

While the man from the NBA was distracted, Howard easily became empowered by all the birds he had brutally murdered for simply trying to exist in prosperity among the comfortable wax occupying his earlobes, also being sensually licked at the moment, by his lover's murderer. He felt all the unaccounted energy bubbling and prickling underneath hairless skin, just as a player of an NBA's. Spindly and maladroit legs shrank as well as his arms and torso. Anger fueled his metaphorical fire while Dwight Howard of the NBA was taken aback by the transformation, tongue lolling against his chin while eyes widened in half-interest, half-horror.

"You kirr my rover," Howard exclaimed, loud as the viewer's cheering during an NBA game, "Now, because I will never find anorer butthole as beautifur as Iris', you must pay."

Before Dwight Howard of the NBA could react, a screech brought upon from the birds _deep inside_, rang loudly through the athlete's relatively normal and mundane ear ducts, the 'ca-caaaw!' throwing the man off guard.

The noise was so powerful, just like Kobe Bryant of the NBA's speeches, which Dwight had jumped back in terror, into the bush portal from which he came.

Easily, Howard grew to his regular size, tears streaming down his face, onto his saliva-laved earlobes, and pitter-pattered against the ground. He dropped to his knees beside his loved one, chlorine still sensually soaked across her barf-colored twelve-piece. Somehow, the dollar bills previously inserted between the rolls of her fat had stayed intact.

"Oh bapsingle-boop-barkle," he sobbed brokenly, peeling off the first piece of her bathing suit, which was situated gently around her first neck fat roll, out of all seventeen. "I will wear your skin proudly, as tradition and curture in bof of our famiries rineage."

Eventually, he had delicately gutted Iris to the point of wearability, her swimsuit tossed into the opalescent pool, as well as her innards. Situating his small body (he only came up to her set of sagging breasts, where two loose vaginas took the place of her nipples (the two missing organs never having made it to her anatomy (when she was birthed))) right inside of her skin.

It was warm, wet and wild inside her body, and vaguely, Howard thought_, it must be something in the water._ As soon as he found himself enveloped in her silky skin, he closed his eyes, and began to sing.

"We're soaring! Frying!" Meanwhile, did you know that turtles lay many, many eggs, because they do not expect the majority of their offspring to be capable of returning to the east Australian current? _Sweeeet_. Totally.


	3. To Kill a Dwight Howard

To Kill a Dwight Howard

Once Howard Dwight finally came to terms with his short-lived, strangely expressed grief, he shed the remains of his once betrothed lover and buried her grimly underneath the pile of pretty peridots his preferred ear parrots had retrieved from the beautiful island country of Sri Lanka. In a rather eccentric manner, he excitedly urinated on the grave, blatantly blasting punk rock trumpet music from his throat music player all the while, to discourage anyone from disturbing his beloved's corpse, and to mark his territory, mirroring the times he previously had relieved himself onto every Chilli's establishment in the county. Howard can now be recognized by every Chilli's employee in the area, as they are informed of him in training or have experienced this spectacular show first hand.

Almost cresting into blackout, overwhelmed with the sensory overload of the pungent aroma of his urine, his vision transcended downwards to his three gnarled hobbit toes. "My shoe," he whispered brokenly in an almost feminine manner. "First my rover, den my shoe? You monster! You wirr pay, Dwight Howard!" He threw his clenched fists into the sky in ethereal rage. A giant single wing sprouted from his spine as he drew in the power of every single ear bird he had ever mutilated. He took off into the night with his earlobes dangling behind him menacingly, his one wing somehow compensating for the lack of the other.

Dwight Howard, on the other hand, was busy at work, removing his own shoes, brow marred with anger as his fingers deflated into normal size. He had put on a mask, faked an identity for his fans, for they would not approve of his crocs, hostile attitude, and murderous tendencies. For now, he was simply an important player on the Lakers, well known by all NBA fans. Today, he was playing the Chicago Bulls. How he hated Joakim Noah. Slathering cream cheese into his underarms, he took a deep inhale, closed his eyes, and back-flipped out of the locker-room in his newly acquired shoe, to join the rest of his team. Little did he know that Howard was using his self-installed tracking devices to find him at that very moment.

Alas, little did _Howard Dwight_ know that Dwight Howard had altered his appearance radically by removing his crocs. How was Howard Dwight to locate Dwight Howard when he did not even know what the criminal looked like? By using his super human nose, of course, which he could activate by tugging lightly on his ribbed septum piercing. Though nauseating to Howard Dwight, he followed the acrid banana and chicken pesto scent trail that Dwight Howard had left in the midst of the conflict, though the odor seemed to be muted slightly by a light touch of old dairy product sometimes used on donut-like pastries known as bagels.

As Dwight Howard went in for the winning slam dunk, the crowd cheering him on eagerly, Howard Dwight smashed straight down through the ceiling in a surprising dive bomb, for he had honed in on Dwight Howard's peculiar smell. The crowd let out a unified gasp, and some onlookers dove over the railings and rolled away in uncontainable fear while yodeling lyrics to Kanye West songs.

"How did you find me?!" Dwight Howard exclaimed in exhilarated shock. Howard Dwight replied by brutally forcing a chicken pesto sandwich down Dwight Howard's throat. Though his initial instinct was to gag and choke, Dwight Howard's pharyngeal jaw extended just in time to save him, biting off Howard Dwight's squirming forearm in the process.

Dwight Howard picked up the sound of Joakim Noah vaguely exclaiming something along the lines of: "I'm out!" He growled, munching the fingernails in his mouth ravenously while eyeing the object of his irritation, Howard Dwight, who was screaming in complete agony on such a high frequency that dolphins from the nearby zoo burst through the walls and began attacking the remaining birds in Howard Dwight's earlobes as he collapsed to the ground in pain. Looming over him threateningly, laughing darkly, with bits of his enemy's flesh falling from the separate jaw's sharp teeth, Dwight Howard sneered sardonically. Then, the blood that was steadily leaking from Howard Dwight's now marred arm began to form into a distinct shape, the burgundy shade morphing into a stormy grey. It was the stormy grey of a dolphin's head, which immediately began clicking and whistling in fury in the general direction of Dwight Howard's cream cheese slathered armpits. Dwight Howard reeled back onto his tenacious tush, but it was already too late. The marine animal reached out and slapped Dwight Howard across the face with its gaping maw. Howard Dwight, empowered by the strength of the sea, jumped up and yelled ferociously, "How does it feer to be down and out of ruck?!" Dwight Howard squeezed his eyes shut, tears forming at the corners, before they rolled to the bloody wood of the court, and began to grow into a huge crater, swirling with a celestial mix of pink, red and a melon-tint.

"You will not take me," he hissed, "Not today! She was my flapper girl, you monkey!" As he spurted these spiteful sounds, his crocs flew from the locker room, burning a hole in the door, and attached quickly to his size seventeen feet. His fingers began to inflate to their basketball size, exposing his true identity, never before seen by the media. They then wrapped around the gullet of the dolphin, and Howard inhaled sharply as the basketball fingers pressed hard enough to push holes into the rubbery skin of the poor dismembered animal.

"Not my dorphin too!" he cried, watching as absurd purple smoke began to rise from the apertures of the dolphin's injuries.

Before he could fight the cruel man he had come to know as Dwight Howard once more, he was gone, army crawling into the crater he now recognized as the previously-used portal, hissing Britney Spears' hit single "Toxic" loudly all the while.

Dwight Howard had neglected to change the destination of his portal, which led him back to the bush he had appeared from previously. He was alarmed to find that the ground was shaking, and that light green gems were spraying out of a patch of freshly turned dirt violently, accompanied with the smell of stale piss.

The grass split, chunks of sediment flew into the night sky, and Dwight Howard watched in amazement as the woman he had come to employ reappeared from the ground in pristine condition, her bathing suit completely intact. When she spoke, his breathing ceased completely.

"Howard? Where are you?"


End file.
